Janet Evanovich - Wicked Business

“He’s not so bad,” Morty said. “I’m sort of looking forward to going home. I got a nice television in my room, and I got my baloney.”

We handed Morty off, and Diesel got back into the stream of traffic, driving away from Beacon Hill.

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

“As long as we’re here, I thought I’d check on Deirdre Early. There are a few things I’d like to talk to her about.”

“Such as?”

“Hitting people in the head, threatening you, Anarchy.”

“All good topics of conversation,” I said. “Maybe you want to take five or six Advil before knocking on her door.”

Diesel turned onto Commonwealth Avenue, and we immediately saw the fire trucks a block away, parked in front of Early’s house. He pulled in behind one of the trucks, and we sat there for a moment looking at the disaster in front of us. Early’s house appeared to be gutted. Windows were blown out. The exterior was soot-stained. The roof was partially collapsed.

“I warned her she was going to self-combust,” I said to Diesel.

His smile was grim. “That would be the hoped-for scenario.”

We left the car and joined two of the firefighters, relaxing by their truck, sipping coffee.

“What happened?” Diesel asked.

“Not sure,” one of the guys said. “Probably some accelerant involved, since it went through the house like lightning. Impossible to know for sure, but it doesn’t look like anyone was home. Lucky we got here fast and kept it from spreading.”

I was thinking probably when the roof went it released all the evil spirits into the air, like the scene in Ghostbusters when the spook containment facility exploded.

Twenty minutes later, we were standing in front of The Key House again, and Diesel had a big screwdriver in his hand.

“So you think that screwdriver is going to do the job?” I asked him.

“I shouldn’t have a problem if it’s just cemented in at the corners.”

“And if the whole thing is cemented?”

“I’ll have a problem. Keep your eye out for company.”

He rammed the screwdriver into the brick and mortar, chipping away chunks of brick.

“You’re making a mess,” I said.

He stopped work and looked at me. “Do you want to try this?”

“No.”

Thunk, thunk, thunk .

“Jeez,” I said. “That’s awfully loud.”

“I’m starting to think I’d be better off with Hatchet,” Diesel said. “At least I could beat him.”

“Just trying to be helpful,” I said. “I thought you’d want to know you were loud.”

Second-floor lights went on in The Key House.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “Can you hurry it up?”

Diesel rammed the screwdriver in one last time, wrenched it back, and the plaque popped off. He scooped it up and stepped off the stoop just as the front door opened and a man wearing boxers and a striped pajama top looked out at us.

“What the devil?” the man said.

We turned and ran, and I heard the man whistle and yell for Bruno. Seconds later, Bruno bounded out of The Key House and took off after us.

“Dog,” I said, gasping for air. “ BIG DOG! ”

The dog was doing a lot better on four legs than I was doing on my two. We were still a block from the car, and Bruno was gaining. Diesel stopped in front of a house with a six-foot privacy fence, grabbed me, and threw me over.

One minute, I was running for all I was worth, and next thing, I was flying through the air, and then- wump -I was flat on my back in someone’s backyard. Diesel followed me over, landing on his feet.

He bent down and looked at me. “Are you okay?”

“Unh.”

Bruno was barking and scratching at the fence.

“He’s going to bring people,” Diesel said, pulling me to my feet. “We have to go.”

We looked around. No place to go. Six-foot fence on all sides. No gates.

“I’m going to alley-oop you into the next yard,” Diesel said.

“No!”

Too late. I was over the fence. Diesel came next. Same deal. No way out.

“This is ridiculous,” Diesel said.

He opened the back door to the house and the alarm went off. We raced through, found the front door, and walked out of the house.

“That was easy,” he said.

Diesel took the 1A all the way into Salem and drove to the bakery. I’d called to check on Clara and found she was at her sister’s house for the night. Glo was off on a date with the bellringer, and no one knew if Deirdre Early was still in the parking lot.

“What are we going to do if she’s still there?” I asked Diesel.

“We’re going to ignore her, break into the bakery, and get something to eat. I’m starving.”

He turned the corner, his headlights flashed on the lot, and the lot appeared to be empty, with the exception of a grotesque, twisted, large black piece of metal.

“What is that?” I asked.

“I think it’s your car,” Diesel said.

“It can’t possibly be my car.”

Diesel parked, we got out, and looked at the charred mess.

“I’m pretty sure it’s your car,” Diesel said. “I can see part of the license plate.”

“I loved that car!”

“No you didn’t,” Diesel said. “It was one step away from scrap metal.”

“Yes, but now I have no scrap metal.”

“Let’s think about what we have here,” Diesel said. “Someone torched your car and Early’s town house. Probably the same person. Possibly Early, although I don’t know why she’d burn down her own house.”

“Because she’s insane?”

“Yeah, that could be one possibility.”

“And then we also have a missing Early. Which could be that either the spell didn’t stick or else someone stole her.”

“I’m going with the spell didn’t stick. I can’t imagine anyone wanting Deirdre Early.”

“Bottom line is I have no idea what the hell’s going on,” Diesel said. “Are we raiding the bakery or do you have something better to eat at your house?”

“I doubt there’s anything left here. We mostly do doughnuts and cookies on Sunday, and Clara isn’t opening for business tomorrow.”

Cat was waiting for us when we walked into the house. I scratched him behind his ear and apologized for leaving him alone all day. I think he might have rolled his eyes at me, but it’s hard to tell, since he only has one that works. I gave him a can of cat food and pulled stuff out of the refrigerator for a frittata.

I’d had a chance to look at the plaque on the way home. There were some markings on the back that looked like hieroglyphics and random letters. I could feel a little heat and a mild vibration, but nothing to make my hair curl.

Diesel was in the living room with the plaque and my computer, and I could hear the television droning in the background. Undoubtedly some sort of sporting event.

I brought him a beer and some cheese and crackers to hold him until the frittata was out of the oven. “How’s it going? Any ideas?”

“The original owner of The Key House, Malcom Key, and the architect, William M. Butterfield, belonged to the Boston Society of Natural History. They would have known Monroe Tichy, and most likely one or both of them was a follower of Lovey, or at least knew him. So maybe the Society is the common denominator. I’m guessing Duane and an early owner of the Van Gogh painting were also Society members.”

“And either Lovey or one of the Society members had the unique ability to energize an object in such a way that another kind of energy would trigger a message.”

“Yup.”

“Do you know where any of this takes us next?”

“No. It would help if something magically appeared on the plaque.”